


this heart will start a riot in me

by aceofdiamonds



Series: the bi who lived [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 02:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7916878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofdiamonds/pseuds/aceofdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By now he’s read a little more, a selection of non-schoolwork books that would have Ron peering at him and making sure he hasn’t Polyjuiced into Hermione, and now he knows a little more. There’s a new word he thinks might apply more to him than the ones he was considering before. But he’s not leaping into any hasty decisions so he doesn’t stick on it, right now, he’s going to wait a little longer. There’s no rush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this heart will start a riot in me

**Author's Note:**

> i've always firmly supported bi harry but it didn't really hit me until a few days ago how really and truly great bi harry is. this is my take on it. title is from that's what you get by paramore
> 
> i've got No idea what to tag for this. only two relationships actually happen?

 

 

Harry is ten when Dudley starts making noises about girls and the lewd thoughts he learns from school spills out in dirty dribs and slevery drabs. He says things to Harry in what Harry assumes is some warped attempt to both bond with Harry and bully him into confessing his wildest dreams.

And it’s not just Dudley.

Ten seems young but these kids are starting to grow up fast. There are giggles from girls and sly looks from boys criss-crossing across the classroom until the teachers tap the desks impatiently,  _will you concentrate, please?_

Harry approaches this stage of life differently. When Dudley is blushing beet-red and ogling unlucky girls, sniggering into his palm when they glare in return, Harry is drowning in something that feels a lot like shame. Because, you see, as everything seems to be with him: Harry is different. And, like everything else, he hates this. He hates that he’s not looking at these girls and feeling that squirmy feeling that sometimes the heroes in his smuggled books mention or that when he dares to glance in a girl’s direction it’s only indifference and the tinge of fear that someone will seek him out and beat him up for having the audacity to lift his head.

Instead he catches a glimpse of someone in a magazine he picks up on the way home from school. He crouches down in the middle of the pavement and picks up the battered sports magazine and the pages inside that declare this teenager to be the next biggest thing in sport, look how far he’s come already.

He catches sight of this person, picks up the magazine, and not to simplify it, but he falls in love.

There’s something flipping around in his stomach, his hands are sweaty, his throat is dry. It’s not a pleasant feeling but it’s not exactly unpleasant; with a bit of nurturing Harry can just about see why people would want to be in love. But none of that matters because this isn’t a girl, this isn’t what’s supposed to happen, this is one more thing he’s going to swallow down and hide.

Over the next year or so Harry is going to feel this fascination grow and he’s going to notice more boys and a couple of men, both around town and on the TV. It’s not going to become any easier, in fact it’s almost harder as he blushes half the time he sees a boy, even ones he doesn't like to look at, as though shamed by association, and Aunt Petunia isn’t known as a busybody by the neighbours for nothing. He doesn’t think she suspects anything but he squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to wince when Uncle Vernon heartily agrees with everything on the news that condemns the sorts of things that crawl into Harry’s head.

With all this to come, Harry scoops up the magazine and stuffs it into his bag, careful not to crease David Beckham’s face.

 

.

 

Hogwarts is big and great and everything and more than Harry ever dreamed of. There are people here his own age who can do the things he can do, there is magic in every corner, and Harry thinks _yes, this is where I belong._

He thinks this might be where he fits in completely but he has his backstory, his life doesn’t quite line up with everyone else’s, and so, again, he stands out, but it’s a little more bearable this time. The looks he get don’t stem from hate or disappointment; he’s been a public figure for ten years without knowing it but with Ron and Hermione he finds it’s okay.

And then he gets picked for the Quidditch team and then he meets Oliver Wood and all the thoughts and feelings that have been pushed to the side come rushing back.

Oliver is tall, muscled, and Scottish. He’s kind to Harry, he makes him laugh, and he explains everything in a simple enough way that Harry’s excitement fills up within him and bubbles over with a grin that hurts his cheeks.

People know of his scar, of his tragedy, of his great unknown power, but they don't know a very large part of his identity that threatens to burst through every time someone claims to know him better than he knows himself.

That being said, Harry doesn't know the exact word yet. He's heard slurs being bounced around, both in Surrey, and, more rarely but still present, at Hogwarts. He’s heard the ugly words that make him flinch and he’s heard gay been thrown about as a thrilling adjective in the rumour mill as well as an insult.

To use a dictionary definition, gay is maybe the word that must suit him best, but he doesn’t think it quite sits right in him. Harry’s not sure why that is yet but he knows he’s hesitant to stick the label on his forehead.

This isn't something he's going to bring up with Ron, the best friend that he is. It's not to say that Ron would be disgusted, or maybe he would, Harry doesn’t know how People Like Him are treated in the wizarding world beside from those insults and whispers. Harry just -- he isn’t -- this is something he’s fine keeping tucked under his ribs for the moment.

 

.

 

Cho Chang is tiny, fast, and Scottish. And a Quidditch player. Harry’s noticing a theme.

With Cho Chang brings a dislodging within him that doesn't feel terrible. She brings the realisation that he thinks he doesn't like only boys, that there could be something more here, because looking across the pitch, there's that same dizzy feeling zinging about his stomach that he's felt with Oliver and everyone else he's ever felt his body be attracted to.

Oliver tells him about Cho and not to distract from the upcoming game but Harry’s worlds are crashing together here. Oliver tells him she’s quick, clever, and not to be underestimated.

He kicks off, wind rushing through his hair as he loops the stadium once and then twice more, eyes on the Snitch and on Cho’s movements. She swoops close to him, determined and undeterred by the Firebolt. A whoosh of laughter leaves Harry when Cho blocks him and she grins when Oliver tells Harry shouldn’t be afraid to knock her off her broom if he has to. They treat everyone the same in Quidditch, you see, maybe that’s why Harry loves it so much.

There's the distraction of Malfoy under the guise of a Dementor and then the match is won and Harry has the struggling Snitch in his hand, Oliver’s joy of bringing the team to the Cup in the other, and all thoughts of Cho are reduced to a win and nothing more.

As though things couldn't be anymore confusing with escaped criminal Sirius Black now Harry’s godfather and on the run, taking with him Harry’s chance of escape, now he has to redefine whatever he's been thinking for the last three years. Cho’s not a boy, and, honestly, that throws everything out the window. Now he doesn't know if he likes just girls now or if he likes just boys and Cho and if any of this is true, what’s he supposed to do with all that?

But he packs that all away for late-night thoughts and hugs Ron and Hermione bye, thoughts zipping forward to the Quidditch World Cup and any comparisons of success from his own win.

 

.

 

Fourth year is messy and lonely. With his new-found godfather on the run and useless for any advice Harry is too shy to ask for he flounders in the space between losing his best friend and trying to work out what the hell he thinks of Cedric because this is his rival, this is the real champion, but he’s nice to Harry, always keeping three steps ahead of everyone else in terms of kindness, and Harry curls under his covers at night and pretends he doesn’t care when Cedric smiles at him.

The glory of getting Ron back has Harry wanting to blurt everything out in some misguided attempt to prove his friendship. He wants to say about Cedric and how confusing everything is because he’s jealous of Cedric and he blushes sometimes when they talk and he’s had some dreams recently that he can’t think about during the day. Instead he falls back on topics that feel safer, including but not limited to: Karkaroff’s old alliances and the ongoing spew campaign.

“David Beckham,” he spills, after the Second Task and Ron is dry and Harry can’t shake the feeling that nothing is right. After the task Cedric had clasped a hand on his shoulder and said _well done_ , hurrying back to Cho before Harry can say the same, a smile flashed over his shoulder. Harry needs to go, Barty Crouch is waiting, there’s something rattling around inside of him, but Cedric catches his eye and smiles again, through the crowd, and Cho waves, and all of a sudden Harry is tired of this life being different from everyone else’s. He wants to be normal; he wants to have the time to work through this without worrying about three months ahead and whatever else he’s got coming for him. “David Beckham,” he says again, frowning, because he thinks this is how he articulates it.

Dean passes, pauses. “He’s the best, isn’t he?” and then he rolls his eyes at Ron and Seamus’s matching blank expressions and moves on.

“Who the bloody hell is David Beckham and what does he have to do with anything?” Ron asks, batting away Hermione’s towel in favour of eyeing Harry.

“He’s a footballer, Ron,” Hermione says helpfully. “You know, like a Muggle Krum.” She joins Ron with the narrowed eyes and Harry hurriedly finishes getting ready to leave because this is unravelling. “Why are you talking about him, Harry?”

“Oh,” he flounders, hates everything. “Someone over there looked a bit like him. I better go -- Crouch.”

In the way that has had Harry admitting much more in the past, Hermione looks all too knowing as he backs away and falls into step with Crouch.

 

.

 

Cho is taken and so is anyone else Harry has the fleetest urge to ask to the Yule Ball (he doesn’t think about the fact that Cho is going with the other person he wishes he could ask, were it not for the burning in his throat and the upholding of social beliefs) and so it’s down to necessity and that determination that’s got him out of so many messes in the past that has Harry seeking out Parvati, swallowing his nerves, and getting it over with.

The thing is, he likes Parvati. She's always good for a laugh and, when Harry was feeling particularly lost without Ron and his Divination homework, she had rolled her eyes and passed her star chart over the table to him, reminding him with a cheeky smile not to copy everything or Trelawney will know something is up. What he’s saying is that it’s both easier and harder to go with Parvati, not being interested in her that way and knowing she feels the same. Easier in that everything is so bloody simple, all they do is talk about class and about Durmstrang and they dance clumsily, and it’s _easy_. It’s hard because this feels like lying, keeping this huge thing from someone doing him a favour, keeping the secret of being jealous of Cedric, of being jealous of Cho, and Harry squirms with that.

They eat and they dance and then they go their separate ways and Harry is left with a decidedly bad taste in his mouth. He might not like Parvati, not in that way, but when Dean and Seamus comment about _the prettiest girls in the year_ there’s a clench at Harry’s heart and a tingle somewhere lower and he agrees, he’s been lucky.

 

.

 

(By now he’s read a little more, a selection of non-schoolwork books that would have Ron peering at him and making sure he hasn’t Polyjuiced into Hermione, and now he knows a little more. There’s a new word he thinks might apply more to him than the ones he was considering before. But he’s not leaping into any hasty decisions so he doesn’t stick on it, right now, he’s going to wait a little longer. There’s no rush.)

 

.

 

_bisexual: a person who is sexually attracted to genders the same and different from their own._

 

.

 

Things work out a little better this time with Cho. If Harry was to find reason for it he would think that the twin hollows inside their chests must have a lot to do with it.

His feelings for Cho were never defined by Cedric and, he hopes, the same is true for her, but of everyone in this castle, they are two of the most affected by what happened and so it’s almost logical for them the bridge the remaining gap between them. Their insides are cluttered with empty spaces and the ache and guilt of everything that could have been.

Harry twists in his sheets, his scar burning into his brain, the hopefulness of sleep taking away parts of his anger diminished in favour of nightmares that have him gasping awake into Ron’s worried eyes. Having lost his parents so young he’s never known grief and to have it affect him this way makes him lash out, crumple. It’s weakening.

Around Cho this feeling intensifies. She laughs with him some days and others she wants to talk but Harry leans into the sensation coursing around his body. Cho might not have been within the crux of the action but she’s suffering and he knows what that’s like. They should fit, and that’s why it’s frustrating when they don’t.

They work until the kiss and then the snake and Christmas blurs everything into another fortnight of loneliness clinging at his sleeves, dragging him down. He can remember the way Cho had felt when she had leaned in and kissed him, the wetness of it, the sadness of it, the way his heart had punched out of his chest. And afterwards, when he had laughed in the common room with Hermione and Ron in a moment so astonishing ordinary Harry wants to turn back time and relive it. He can remember the Moment but it’s clouded with the following nightmare, the blood that still sticks to his hands, and again he’s reminded of Cedric and how he never does _enough_.

It fizzles out -- they both have too many other things on their minds right now than to do more than wince and try to move on. It’s awkward between them, two teenagers trying to fix more than they can; they lament in later years of the timing not being right, and it’s fine.

 

.

 

The summer before sixth year David Beckham scores a goal that shocks the country and notches up the already sky-high expectations of the future for him. They plaster his face across magazines, replay his goal on the telly for weeks to come, and Harry can't help but notice that he looks different from the last time he paid attention to him, different hair, different smirk. 

It's immediately noticeable on the return to Hogwarts, the effect this has had on those living in a Muggle household. There are flashes of red at tables other than Gryffindor and more than a few boys have come back with hair falling into their eyes, not unlike Beckham's, and, oddly, not unlike Harry's. 

It's Terry Boot's that Harry notices, his head turning back to the Ravenclaw table two more times to really make sure. Harry's never spoken to Terry beyond the DA meetings but over the next fortnight he seems to catch his eye a lot more than usual, grins flashing and glances sliding away. It never comes to anything but it's something new, fun. He's giving himself the freedom of looking.

 

.

 

Harry would read the books handed out at primary school, the ones with morals and with simple stories of heroes saving the world and marrying the beautiful girl. When he was reading those stories they were his escape, a preferable version of the world he hates told neatly in the space of a hundred words, just enough material for him to fantasy about being that hero, or even to be an ordinary person, just so long as he was away from the Dursleys and into a place a little happier.

When he was reading those stories and savouring the parts that warmed him up, he never could have guessed, not if he had a million go's and a genie to grant him three wishes, that this is where he would end up, in a place not unlike those stories that saved him.

Voldemort is gone, his soul dismantled and blown apart beyond repair, and here is the part where Harry, the somewhat reluctantly labelled hero of the world, continues with his life. Here is where the hero leads the country into a new era, where they set up the clean-up, where they work with others to make sure that the horrors of the past will never happen again.

Harry will get there, he will, but for now he’s tired.

For now, he moves into a flat in London barely big enough for one and he sleeps a lot and he reads a lot and he finds his way back to Ginny around about the same time she finds her way back to him. They’ve always known each other better than they’ve known everyone else, you see, and they fall back into each other as easily as that afternoon after the Quidditch Cup and everything made a little more sense.

Harry knows that this is Love because there’s no worrying, no awkwardness, no _are these feelings right?_

He says the words out loud for the first time when he’s twenty. They’ve been getting restless, never far from his throat, but it’s a lazy Sunday morning, Ginny sleepy and warm beside him, that they make their appearance.

“I’m bisexual,” he tells the world, his mouth burrowed in her hair.

Ginny tilts her head up towards him, her eyes bright, her mouth curved. “Thank you for telling me, Harry.” She kisses him, briefly, sweetly.

He opens his mouth to say more but doesn’t know what else to add, not for the moment. “You’re the first person I’ve told,” he admits, and she kisses him again, whispers a thank you into his mouth.

Telling people wasn’t ever his biggest priority -- this was a combination of a couple of things, mostly the fact that, simply put, he had too many other things to worry about; he couldn’t afford to lose people around him if he could stop it; and, finally, things feel permanent with Ginny. He might be wrong about this, something might break them apart further down the line, but for now he feels content, content enough to wonder if telling people was necessary. He’s comfortable with the term and isn’t that enough?

But he tells Ginny and it’s as if something inside of him wriggles loose and all of a sudden, without noticing the difference before, he feels a little lighter, as though he would float right out of bed if Ginny wasn’t holding his hand. It’s just -- it’s _nice_ , telling someone.

Harry doesn’t know if he’ll ever tell any more people, having Ginny know feels like enough. Maybe one day he’ll slip it into conversation with Ron and Hermione, a new factor of his identity that he’s spent a few years coming to terms with and living with.

“I love you,” he tells Ginny, kissing her, breathing her in.

“I love you too,” she replies, yawning, accidentally kicking him in the shin as she shuffles into a more comfortable position.

This is Harry at peace, take it all in.

 

.

 

(A month later, a coffee after practice, Ginny swallows and says, “Harry, I want you to know. I’m bisexual as well.”

Harry inhales his juice, nods a thanks in Ginny’s direction when she discretely waves her wand to fix him, and then puts his cup down and beams. “Yeah?”

“I’ve known since I was -- fourteen maybe?”

“Why didn’t you say before? We could have bonded.” He hopes he’s not taking this too lightly. For all his research and all his thinking he’s never been on the other end. He doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. He remembers what she said to him immediately after. The validation. “Thanks for telling me, Ginny.”

The expression on Ginny’s face is something similar to what Harry imagines his was. It’s not something either of them talk about non-stop but it’s good, knowing this about the other, knowing what can and can’t be said, having even more insight into what they’re possibly thinking, feeling.

“I didn’t want to steal your thunder,” Ginny says, laughing when Harry goes to reassure her. “We’re a perfect match, Harry.”

“ _You’re_ perfect,” Harry says, the blunt words of affection never clumsy or forced.

And Ginny takes it with a fake swoon, a hand on her heart, before she leans in and kisses him, a thanks in return.)

 

 

 


End file.
